


No "W"

by twistedchick



Series: Gamblers' Choice [1]
Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Multi, Strip Poker, three-way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:43:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a poker game can change your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No "W"

> Nikita: There's no "w" in menage a trois.  
> Walter: Damn! I put that through a spell-checker!  
> \--"Love", episode of LFN  
> 

"I hate waiting on alert. It's like waiting for the dentist," Nikita grumbled. "And the third time this week, too." She sat on the edge of a chair in a Section One meeting room and considered whether Operations or Madeleine had been the one to choose such uncomfortable chairs. Probably Ops, she decided.

"We could wait in my room," Walter suggested with a grin. "I've got this nice old easy chair, Nikita. You might like it." Like the others, he was dressed in black commando gear, but he still wore his trademark bandana around his head, blue this time for a night mission.

"Too far away," Birkoff said, with a glance at Nikita. "My room's just down the hall. We could wait there." He was doing his best to seem non-threatening; Nikita's moods had been unpredictable since she returned to Section. He was glad that Ops had decided to send Michael out independently to scout a terrorist cell in Belgium for a few days. Maybe it would give her a break -- and ease the tension for all of them. "Sure. Anything's better than waiting here." Nikita pushed herself up out of the plastic molded chair and grabbed her equipment -- weapons, ammunition, climbing gear. Anything could be needed on a mission, and fortunately Section One had the money to buy the best equipment in the world, or the best of anything else. She thought about this as she followed the two men down the short hallway. "You're still living here all the time?"

Birkoff allowed himself a small smile. "I have to stay close when we're in the middle of things."

She nodded, and wondered where he spent the rest of his time. The place he was leading them to wasn't the room she'd seen him in a few months earlier, when he'd been upset about having to kill an enemy operative. Maybe, with his exposure to the outside world, his tastes had changed a little; maybe he'd decided to live in something that didn't resemble a neon refrigerator so much. He opened the door and turned on the light. Nikita and Walter followed him into a large studio apartment, with paintings and posters in place of the windows it would have had if it had been above ground. On one side was an alcove with a large bed and a closet door with a mirror; across from it lay a kitchen with stove, refrigerator and sink. Along the third wall an array of computer equipment clustered around a desk. A bookshelf contained cyberpunk novels, adventure stories and fantasy novels, along with a couple of cookbooks and a startling array of zines. A door on the fourth wall led into a bathroom. In the middle of the room were a table and chairs, a couch facing the television on the computer wall, and an easy chair with a reading lamp. It looked warmer and much more comfortable than his old room.

"What d' you think?" Walter asked her.

"Not bad at all. Does Section stock the fridge or do you get to do your own shopping?"

"I send up a list of food I want, and someone does the shopping once a week or so; they let me know and I pick it up." Birkoff dropped his gear by the table and went to the fridge. "You want something to drink? Can't be beer before a mission, but I've got juice, soda, iced tea..."

"Orange juice?" Nikita asked. Walter nodded, and Birkoff poured two glasses of juice and got himself a cola.

Nikita put her gear down and flopped on the couch. "I could get used to this." Her eyes scanned the room for the hidden cameras and microphones that Section One used to spy on its operatives. Necessary security, they called it. She called it an invasion of privacy.

"I took them out," Birkoff said. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh, I didn't throw them in Ops' face the way you did, I just pointed out that I needed some time off or I couldn't be at my best when they needed me. Walter backed me up."

"Madeleine agreed with me," Walter said. "For once."

Nikita let out a long sigh. "Privacy, the only freedom left to us."

"You got that right," Walter agreed. He turned a kitchen chair around and settled into it, leaning his arm on the back and his chin on his arm. "So, what do you want to do with it?"

"What do you usually do when you're waiting?"

"Play poker."

"I can do that." She sat up and took a drink of juice. "What do you play for?"

"What've you got?" Walter grinned.

An answering gleam came from Nikita's eyes, which seemed to grow bluer. "Let me see. Well, we have to be ready to leave at a moment's notice and we can't take off our pagers. How about virtual strip poker?"

"Virtual?" Birkoff looked wary but interested. Virtual reality poker? He didn't have the equipment set up for that, but it was possible ... then again, they were on alert so there probably wasn't time.

"You write down all the things you're wearing on little slips of paper, and play those instead of chips. We used to do this..." Her voice dropped and she shrugged off the Before Section memories.

Before prison. Before the murder charge, when she was a street kid playing for food money sometimes and for love at other times. "Anyway, it works."

"Sounds good to me, sugar. You got some paper here, Birkoff?"

Birkoff produced three pens, a pad of paper, and a new deck of cards. Within minutes each of them had a pile of strips of paper on the table and a handful of cards.

The first hand of five-card draw, Nikita bet her sunglasses, earrings (two separate bets) and a glove. Walter bet a shoe, a sock and his hat. Birkoff bet his jacket, shoes and socks. Birkoff won with two pair and swept those promises into the pile in front of him. The next hand, Nikita won back her sunglasses, Walter's knit hat, and Birkoff's watch. Half an hour passed, then an hour, and the piles of paper moved back and forth.

"I'll have to quit; I don't have much more to bet," Walter said, when he had only three slips of paper on the table in front of him. "I've only got my underwear and my bandana left."

Nikita looked at him through her eyelashes. Walter had been flirting with her so long she figured he never thought she'd take him up on it. She wanted to see what would happen if she flirted back just a bit more.

"Here." She tossed him a pen and paper. "Write down IOUs for personal services. Things you'd do for me or Birkoff."

"There's some difference between you two," Walter muttered, not missing the look Nikita and Birkoff exchanged. He scribbled out five slips of paper. "That's as far as I'm going."

"Oh, Walter, are you sure?"

Birkoff blinked, owlishly, and surveyed his hand. He didn't really believe in luck. He believed in observation and skill, and he knew nobody was dealing off the bottom of the deck right now. But he'd been watching Nikita for an hour and he knew she was on edge, her high spirits masking tension. She needed to blow off steam badly, just to relieve the stress. Well, so did he and Walter, and he wasn't quite as young or inexperienced as he knew he looked. If only he had time to strike a match to her, the explosion might be good for them all ...

The beeper in his ear buzzed at the same time that Nikita and Walter looked up. "You're off alert. Mission scrubbed for tonight. You've got two days off." Operations sounded peeved. "We'll have to wait until Michael gets back from Brussels. Ops out."

"That's a relief," Nikita said. "I hate missions in the rain anyway."

"You sure you're not part cat?" Walter inquired.

She batted her eyelashes at him and purred, outrageously, and both men laughed. They stripped off their headsets and handed them to Walter, who grinned. "I'll be right back. Don't start anything without me," he said. He picked up the weapons and equipment and left to check them back into stock in his office.

"What would we start?" Nikita held out her empty glass to Birkoff. He put his hand around hers, carefully, and looked steadily into her eyes.

"Anything you want."

She blinked. "Right now, I'm just thirsty."

He nodded, took the glass and went to the fridge. "How about a beer, since we're off alert?"

"Fine." Nikita stood and stretched, moving around the apartment randomly. "Birkoff, how old are you?"

His voice was calm. "Eleven months younger than you are."

"You don't look that old."

"I don't get out in the sun that much." It was true. After a pause, she said, "I didn't think you were interested in me."

He stopped at the counter, opening the second bottle of beer, his back to her. "You only look at Michael."

"He's not in my life any more."

You can't say that for sure, Birkoff thought. I've seen the way your eyes follow him. One half-smile from Michael and you'll forget the rest of us exist. As it is, we're the only ones you can be with and not go against the unwritten rules. Aloud, he said, "Look around you. I'm not the only one."

"I don't think Walter's serious," she said, her lips curving into a smile. "He just likes to flirt."

"He flirts with everyone, but you're the only one it's gone on this long with."

"Everyone?"

"Well, not Michael or Ops or Housekeeping."

"That's a relief." Her eyes widened as she realized he hadn't exempted Madeleine. "Madeleine?"

He shook his head. "Not lately. Not for a long time."

"You would know." He nodded, acknowledging this. She considered the matter, her head tilted to one side. "And what do you think I should do?"

He turned and walked toward her, setting the beers on the table and stopping just an arm's length away. She stood a couple of inches taller, less of a difference than she'd realized. Perhaps she'd thought he was so much younger because she usually saw him sitting down behind a computer while she stood and looked over his shoulder. He reached out to take her hand.

"Whatever you want."

The door started to open, and he dropped her hand and picked up a beer bottle. Walter came in and shut the door behind himself.

"Everybody's standing down except the night crew. You can go home if you want, Nikita." He stopped a few steps from the door, sensing a change in the atmosphere within the room. His eyes flickered from one of them to the other. "It's pouring like hell out there; you walked, didn't you? I could drop you off."

Nikita looked from Birkoff to Walter and a wild light came into her eyes. "I think I'd rather get on with the game."

"That could be fun. What do you have in mind?"

Walter'd seen her in these moods before, with Michael. She could be dangerous, but he liked danger. She couldn't scare him. He'd been there on those first few missions with Ops and Madeleine when they were all there was of Section One, and more than once he'd been the reason they were all still alive. He had the scars to prove it, and he still had a taste for danger and deadly women. Nikita had potential as an agent, and more strength than she knew for all her youth and bravado and pain. Besides, he liked to watch her; her unpredictability attracted him. It let him imagine moving outside the role he'd lived for so many years, into something new.

Nikita swept the slips of paper into a pile, all of them together, then divided them into three stacks. "We start over, for real. And Birkoff and I add in personal service slips as well."

Birkoff gulped his beer. "All right. Beer's in the fridge, Walter."

"I think I'm gonna need one." By the time he was back at the table, Nikita and Birkoff had written out their slips of paper and hidden them in their stacks. "Wait a minute. Either you give me back the ones I had on the table or you put yours in the pot to get divided up as well. Fair's fair." Nikita pouted. "Brat. You want a good spanking."

"Did you list that as one of your services?"

"Maybe I should rewrite one of them. Where's that pen?"

She laughed and let him sort out his five pieces of paper, but kept the pile of their clothing slips jumbled up.

A little more tension, a little more excitement flickered in the air as they sat back down around the table. Now each of them could bet someone else's clothing, and if they lost it would have to come off.

"Let's raise the stakes," Walter said, glancing from Nikita to Birkoff, who was looking far too calm for the situation. Birkoff was up to something, for sure, and he was starting to get a few ideas himself. "These are ones," Walter said, separating out the slips for outer clothing, "these are fives," he pointed to inner clothes slips, "and these are tens." The last were the personal service slips. He pushed his glasses down his nose and looked over them at Nikita.

"Fine with me," Nikita said. Biroff shrugged, shuffled the cards and dealt the hand.

After the draw, Nikita held two pair, threes and eights. She bet her socks and shoes. Walter countered with gloves and shoes and raised the stakes by an undershirt. Birkoff looked down at his cards, up at Nikita, and pushed one personal service slip into the pile. "One foot rub after a long mission. I'll see you," he said.

He won, with two pairs -- fives and nines. Walter had one pair of queens. "All right. Take them off."

Nikita smiled sweetly and kicked off her socks and shoes. Walter dropped his gloves on the floor, took off his shoes, and stood to get to the undershirt. As he unzipped his jacket and unbuttoned his flannel shirt, Nikita whistled, "The Stripper." Walter pulled off his undershirt and put the flannel shirt and jacket back on. "Don't get any ideas, kid. You're gonna have to win these to get them off me."

"What makes you think that I won't?"

"Call it a hunch."

"What about the personal slips?"

"We'll do them last," Birkoff said.

She winked at him and took the cards to shuffle and deal. This time she discarded three cards and drew three more. Birkoff discarded two. Walter kept his original hand. After the draw, Nikita held three jacks.

Walter folded his cards in his hand. "I bet Nikita's jacket."

"I bet a jacket and I'll raise you a shirt," Birkoff countered. "Your shirt."

"I bet a jacket -- your jacket, Walter -- and your shirt, Birkoff, and I raise you an earring."

"A lousy earring? You must have terrible cards."

Nikita whistled idly, her eyes busy noticing something she hadn't picked up on before. "All right then, two earrings."

Walter looked at his cards. "I don't trust you." He raised a pair of slacks and said, "I'll see you."

Sure enough, Nikita's three jacks beat his two pair and Birkoff's three threes.

"Take 'em off, Walter. You too, Birkoff." She hugged her jacket close. "Oh, this jacket is so nice and warm."

"Brat." Walter took off his jacket and shirt to display a muscular chest and shoulders. Birkoff dropped his jacket on the floor and pulled his long-sleeved rugby shirt over his head. Nikita's eyes widened; Birkoff's clothing had hidden a nicely muscled slim body. Birkoff blushed, so faintly it almost didn't show. "I don't just sit at a computer all the time, you know."

"He's my sparring partner," Walter volunteered. "Keeps me in shape."

"Oh, you don't work out with Tweedledum and Tweedledee the way Michael does?" Nikita inquired.

Walter snorted his beer -- fortunately, not over his pile of slips -- and had to wipe up the table. "Oh, that's rich. Good thing you turned off the bugs in here, Birkoff. They'd hate that."

"Wait a minute," Nikita said. "Drop the pants, Walter."

Walter shot her a look. "Whatever you say, sugar." He pulled off the heavy jeans he wore, to reveal muscular legs and boxer shorts. Heavy scars ran down his thighs and across his calves; not all of them from bullets, she could tell. He'd gone through the torture mill a few years ago, as most of them would at one time or another. "You can ask if you want," he said.

Nikita shook her head. "No, it's your business. If you want me to know, you'll tell me. We have so little that's ours here." She put out her hand to touch his arm on the table.

"Come on, deal." Birkoff pushed the cards over to Walter. "I'm getting cold." Nikita got lousy cards in the deal, and they didn't improve when she discarded four of them and drew four more. Walter's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. Birkoff looked from one of them to the other and pushed the second of his personal service slips into the pot.

"What is it?" she asked

"A backrub."

"Not bad. I bet a shoulder rub and raise you...an undershirt."

"I didn't think you wore one."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?"

"I hope so."

"Can I get in on this?" Walter complained. "I bet a full-body massage and Birkoff's jeans."

Birkoff raised an eyebrow. "That's got to be worth more than a shoulder rub. We'll have to consider that a raise." He sifted through his small pile of slips. "I bet Nikita's shoes and I raise you a belt."

"Hmm. I didn't think you were into that, Birkoff." Nikita fanned her lousy cards as if she'd expected them to metamorphose into a winning hand. "I bet Walter's socks and raise you -- oh, all right. I'll raise you a kiss."

"I'll see you on that," Walter said, pushing another slip into the pile.

"What're you betting there?"

"You'll find out. Let's see your cards."

Her cards were still lousy. So were Walter's. Birkoff had a full house, ace high.

"So, who gets the shoulder rub and the kiss?" Nikita asked. "I've already lost my shoes." She slipped out of her jacket, took off her sweater and pulled a form-fitting undershirt off over her head, her pale hair splashing down on her white shoulders. She wore no bra beneath it. The black sweater and jacket went back on.

"We can save the shoulder rub for later, but I think I'd like the kiss now," Birkoff said.

"All right." She stood, took a step around the table to where Birkoff sat, leaned over and gave him a long, sweet kiss. She wasn't surprised when he kissed her back, but his ability to read her mind through the kiss was startling. He hadn't been lying about experience. She sat back down again, catching her breath.

Walter looked from one of them to the other. "Just what I need, incentive." He pulled off his socks and dropped them onto the pile of clothes on the floor. "Deal the damn cards."

Nikita couldn't believe her eyes on the deal. She shot Birkoff a suspicious glance, but his face was just as it always was. This couldn't be legit; he had to have stacked the cards. She'd been given a flush in hearts. She slumped in her chair, then straightened and looked over her cards at her opponents. Sure enough, she could see just enough in the reflection of the cards on their eyeglasses to guess what they might have. It looked like Walter had a full house, a good one. It was harder to tell with Birkoff's photogray glasses. She decided to bet as much as she could, win or lose, and go home to sleep; the strain of the on- again, off-again alerts was wearing her out. It didn't help that Michael's ardor had cooled since she returned to Section; she might as well be Ops for all the notice he took of her. Damn the man, why did he have to turn on her senses and then ignore her? Her nerves were wound up tighter than the reel of nylon cord on her climbing gear.

"I think it's time to put aside the things we've had on the table and just deal with what we haven't bet yet, don't you?" She looked at the small pile of slips in front of her and selected two.

"I bet my jacket and slacks."

Walter snapped his hand shut. "That's what, two points? Not very much."

"All right, I'll add my underwear. Happy, Walter?"

"Delirious. I'll bet my watch, _your_ sweater, and his slacks."

"Right," Birkoff said briskly. He pushed several clothing slips into the pile in the center of the table. "That's my underwear, Walter's underwear and Walter's bandana. And I'll raise you this." He turned over one personal service slip and read it. "One backscrub in the shower." He dropped it onto the stack.

"Ooo, this is getting serious." Nikita pushed her last clothing slip -- for her wristwatch -- into the pile, and picked up two from the small pile. "Let's see, I've already lost a shoulder rub and a kiss. I'll bet a dinner for two -- I'm a decent cook -- and a backrub."

"I bet you are, sugar. Let's see. I've already put down a full-body massage and a session of personal tutoring in special weapons drills," Walter said drily. "That's what was on that last slip you never read."

"Special weapons drills? What is this?" Nikita asked. It sounded intriguing.

"Oh, just a few things I've learned over the past few years that come in handy when the high-tech stuff doesn't work. You might like it."

"Could be interesting. C'mon, place your bet."

He pushed two slips toward her, and she turned them over and read them aloud.

"A night with me, whatever you want. A day with me, whatever you want."

She looked up at him. For all his gray hair, he was the same age inside as she and Birkoff were. Or maybe a little older, with experience and skill. Maybe she might learn something. Hmm.

"Subject to Section time, of course," Walter explained. "If we get called in, we spend the rest of the time later on."

"Of course."

"I do have a room down the hall..." Birkoff picked up two slips and read them aloud. "A weekend in the country." He looked up at her, daring her to point out how rarely he went outdoors. "We can use the safehouses for time off if we want. Ops approved that two months ago, and so far it's gone well." He pushed that slip forward. "A kiss and more." They went on the stack.

Nikita drew a deep breath and turned over her last personal slip to read aloud. It had seemed like such a joke when she wrote it, but now she felt as if she was swimming in deep water, feeling it move around her with a mind of its own. "A weekend of lovemaking, when and where you wish." She placed it on the pile.

Walter's grin twisted a little. "Guess I'll have to add mine in too." He turned the paper over and read, "Menage a trois. Yes, damnit, I did spell it right this time."

Birkoff turned over his last slip. "Great minds with the same thought," he said, as if it didn't matter, and pushed it over to Nikita to read: Three of a kind makes a pair. It went on the pile.

"Let's put our cards on the table," Nikita said, a little breathlessly. The beer was going to her head. It was late. She didn't want the game to stop. It felt so good to be with these men she could trust who didn't lie to her or lead her on. They didn't make promises and break them; they didn't seduce her away from her freedom.

Nikita held a flush in hearts, jack high. Walter held a full house, kings over queens. Birkoff had dealt himself a jack-high flush in diamonds, the same cards as hers.

It was impossible. It was real.

"All right, which one of you stacked the cards?"

"You mean you didn't?" Walter looked shocked. "Section One rules: do whatever you need to do to win. So I lost this time. Don't shoot me." He locked eyes with Nikita. "Don't you think I should get a kiss too?"

"I suppose so. We do have three days off, don't we?" She moved toward Walter and put a hand on his shoulder and he drew her in for a kiss, wrapped in a strong hug. She caught her breath as she felt a smaller hand moving down her back, pushing aside the sweater to rub her shoulders.

"Excuse me for feeling slightly left out, but the bed's over here," Birkoff said, "and if you don't mind I'd rather you took off all the studded leatherware first. I don't want to have to explain to anyone why my sheets got ripped up." He stripped off his jeans and jockey shorts.

"Is there room for all three of us?" she asked, taking off the rest of her clothes and dropping them to the floor. Birkoff rubbed her back, finding the small knots in the muscle and easing them.

"It'll be cozy, but there's room."

"Cozy is good." She turned to Walter, who was nibbling on her shoulder. "Aren't you going to take off your headband?"

Walter smiled. "Sugar, this is the only thing I take it off for." He pushed it aside and tossed it onto the rest of his clothes. Under the headband, on the side of his head above his ear, she saw a scar from a bullet crease. It had healed years ago, but the hair had never grown back at that spot. She touched it with her fingers, then kissed it. Walter pulled back to look at her, his eyes glowing with emotions stronger than he would admit.

She turned to Birkoff, who took off his glasses and set them aside gravely on a small table by the bed. He looked hopeful, his face open, but with something in his expression that made her think he'd trusted someone in the past who'd hurt him so badly he'd hidden himself for years. Yet he was trusting her now. Their eyes met. He kissed her, and again she felt him knowing what she wanted before she could ask, and offering her everything.

She put an arm around each of them, and together they made their way to the bed in its shadowed alcove.

Later:

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Nikita asked, lounging back and feeling the tingles working up and down her spine. "You're good. Really good."

"Tripled? Actually, no." Birkoff looked apologetic, but not quite as young as he had a few hours before. He lay with his head on her shoulder, tickling her with the ends of her hair. "But I've thought about it a lot."

"It's been a while for me," Walter said, his head pillowed on her hips. "I think I'm a bit rusty. Maybe I should practice some more, just to keep up my skills."

Nikita felt a laugh bubbling up inside her, and let it free. "Heaven forbid we allow a Section operative to be out of practice. All skills must be at their highest level, always. Now, what was it you wanted to show me?"

Still later:

"Oh. My. God."

"Why, Walter, you sound surprised."

"I'm not... I'm ... oh God, don't stop, Nikita..."

Later again:

"Birkoff, you have an excellent imagination."

"I thought you'd like that, Nikita. How about this?"

"Ahh....ohh, yes..."

Just before noon:

The door swung open slowly on oiled hinges, only enough to allow Madeleine's head. She'd been looking for Walter, who wasn't answering his page and wasn't in his room. She knew that sometimes he stayed with Birkoff, though she thought their relationship mostly platonic. Birkoff being Birkoff, she'd kept the knowledge to herself. It did Walter good to have someone to care about, and his help gave Birkoff confidence and more skills at his work. Since all of this benefitted Section One, there was no reason to change the situation.

But there seemed to be too many arms and legs sticking out of the bed.

Madeleine considered the possibilities. Walter, she knew from experience, went both ways happily. Birkoff, in his less obvious way, did the same when he could. So who could the third be? Curiosity could be excused on the grounds of security, of course, though she knew Walter and Birkoff were as close to being above suspicion as possible.

Then she saw the long strand of blonde hair that strayed across Birkoff's arm. Only one operative in all of Section had that long ice-blonde hair.

Madeleine smiled, a genuine warm smile that would have astonished Nikita if she'd seen it. She'd been hoping for an alternate solution to the situation that Michael was handling so poorly. She also hoped Michael had done some thinking while he'd been off on reconnaissance; the situation as it stood could not be allowed to continue. It was getting to the point that Operations himself was noticing Michael's behavior, which had not improved since Jurgen's death. It was dangerous to have Operations notice personal matters, especially the kind of emotional venting Michael had done with Jurgen.

This should be good for Nikita, she thought, and that will be good for Section. Nikita is growing more level-headed about emotional matters; she should gain a lot of confidence from having these two interested in her. Perhaps if she can exercise her emotions in private they will be less of a problem in public.

Michael will just have to adjust. Maybe he'll learn something too. If not...

I can wait until later to ask Walter about the new weapons he's been working on, she thought. She closed the door silently and went away.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written (and departs from series canon) during the second season of La Femme Nikita on US television, 1998-99.


End file.
